WRITING SAMPLE
BOOK EXCERPT: Reflections on Loss and It's Deep Introspection
Note: Raw poetic writing evokes deep introspection and allows for a profound resonance with one's emotions, promoting healing and integration of emotional pain.
Warning: This writing contains vivid descriptions of personal trauma, loss, and emotional distress, which may have unsettling or triggering effects that are unwanted at this time If you wish to avoid these potential triggers please discontinue reading.
I have been permeated by cemetery flowers, rotten flowers, carried by he wind of autumn, summer, spring and even the frosty air of winter. They always found their way through, just like the final end has always found me, reaching the stillness of death, the quintessence of non movement: rotten earth, rotten wood, rotten flowers. A distinct energy and smell of nonexistent life, with its pungency in the air, my air, my life, overshadowed by non life. My life filled with non life, my creativity locked into a hollow bubble, the creativity I came here for with this soul that I am. And now? Am I being parked forever? My soul feels like frozen in ice and nothing allowed it to melt, at least not fully and now once again I'm walking on ice, not talking -all numb starring within the stillness of death, but I am alive and I know that I could not change that no matter how hard I would try. I am here to live. But this comes with a responsibility and without it being lived I will not be happy and fulfilled and maybe nobody around me can -like a spell which gets passed on and the stronger one wins. I had to watch deeply disturbing movies to awaken, to feel someone’s else’s pain so deeply to reach mine, all buried to the last layer of the ground, to the last layer of the grave where my brother got buried so deeply. I saw the grave, this hole so deep that nobody could reach him anymore ever again, his little body forever taken away from all of us. And the rest of us being stranded with our deepest sorrow, stuck with all of our feelings not allowed to being expressed, with no room available for any of them. It seems strange the sky did not open up with a loud noise and dead black birds falling down in agony with all this condemned energy from stuck feelings of beyond pain. Sliced hearts, strangled throats, threatened to keeping quiet keeping tears inside and mad voices, screaming "NO", silenced by the sin clouds of the church, transferred by human body’s of the family members; ”YOU! “YOU”! “YOU”! We were all guilty! Guilty and in shock, condemned not to live a life in happiness or contentment. I’m at the scene: its loud, its traffic loud where we are walking, we are walking because my uncle did not show up with his car to drive us home as promised, so my grandmother decided we'll be walking. I can tell my grandmother is not happy, she is overwhelmed, how old is she? She seems so old and tired. I can tell she does not want responsibility, but everybody gives it to her, passes it on like it has been passed on from generation to generation, just like any unresolved stuff gets passed on without an end, just like guilt, shame and responsibility. So here we are, and I'm an empath. I feel everything at all times. Hear, feel, see and know, whichever comes first. I always know what’s going on and I suck it up. What else would I do with it. Nobody had taught me to leave it with wherever it came from. So somehow there is always noise, if not acoustically from the surrounding in the here and now, than from memories played out in peoples minds around me, imprints, their stories and judgements. All of that, just no true communication, no deep relating to one and another, not that. Over my dead body…… over who's dead body? So its loud and quiet within the noise, the quietness of a shutdown being. Do not express! Why? We are sinners, we are nobodies, we are not worthy, we have nothing to say, we are victims because they……..the jews, the nazis, the fleers, the victims, the betrayed, the betrayers, the church and its sinners, the neighbors, the money, the inflation. The space is full but empty of love, empty of being, empty of allowing to feel or expressing ones own feelings. My grandmother wanted me to hold my brothers hand while trying to hold his other hand, he did not want to, did not want to be held. He wanted to be free. Who was he? He seemed like a free sprit, more free than me, carefree…was he? He was 4, I was 7 and I did not want to be a caretaker, I did not want to be told what to do, So we are walking. I’m not really aware of myself, my way out was singing but I only knew songs from school which did not allow me to leave the birds cage. I was seven, a fabrication of do’s and don'ts and emotional heaviness, shifting weights around in my field to prevent myself from drowning I had lots of nightmares, and would lay in bed with fears and shape shifting energies. Anyway, so we were walking…… we reached opposite the house we were living in one of the apartments on the ground floor. So there we were, some nobodies with an overwhelmed grandmother a little 4 year old boy who did not want to be held, nor be held back and a 7 year old sister who wanted to experience herself through her voice. He wanted to be free to run, had he planned for it? Did I look? What do I really remember? The day of death, the day of dawn, the day where everything would change forever in a very unforeseen destined way nobody could have possibly imagined. So my breath stopped when? Lights and a solid noise against a car -my uncles car- ever so slight. Did everything take a second or was it light speed? Light, sound, my brother on the ground... .did I hear a break? Did I hear myself breathe? Scream? What? I see my grandmother and my uncle kneeling over my brother. I feel strangely by the side like a side dish not belonging. I felt awkward because I had no part in it, no role but I was there, so close and yet so far away. I heard my grandmother say: ”but now you won’t be so mean to him anymore…” - that stuck - why would she say that? Say that now? They lifted him in the car, he was on her lap, moaning, barely conscious, and very pale with a ghost like appearance. She had asked him to where it hurt and his response was "everywhere". Where was I ? Had I left my body? It all felt like a tenth of a second then he laid on the ground, on the cold street in March in this german village. Police was just stationed down the road, but we needed a hospital, which would deny immediate access to emergency due to a lack of outside wounds, so we would be kept waiting for a long time, too long to give a chance to save a life. It was dark, it must have been already seven, or when did pink panther end? At 6? Or did it start then? It was the last thing we got to watch together on tv before we left to walk home. People enjoy pink panther displayed on my painting "the death of my brother" while trying to hang on to something joyful -the one and only joy, besides death crawling out of it from all corners. The ghosts haunting down death, death haunting down the ones alive trying to further exist. The pain is just too deep to feel it, I refuse. Better to leave my body and forever feel like an outsider from hereon out. I get it. I don’t wanna be here. Why would I? I had a nervous breakdown walking into church on funeral day- I felt slapped- get your act together and be quiet- and quiet would turn into my new voice of truth- so quiet I was till I was finally able to sink all of my being into his grave while they deeply dropped down his coffin in front of our eyes. I was able to join him while nobody noticed me giving away my soul on this very day sinking deeply into my brothers arms, united once again.